I
lettered in high school
In an
activity I have to explain every time
It
was forensics
And, no, I didn't cut up dead people
It was just speech and debate
I partook
in the speech side
Namely poetry, imagine that
My piece
was "The Cremation of Sam McGee"
I
picked “Sam McGee” because it was macabre
I thought it was fun and unique
I
typed it up,
Mounted it on green construction
paper
Proceeded to commit it
to memory
I enjoyed
moderate success with it
Until that one competition
Vividly
that room floats
Through the recesses of my mind
The
room of my discontent
Where my performance faltered and came apart
It
was a portable classroom common in Arizona
The
resident teacher had a crate of vinyl records
I was distractedly leafing through
Waiting
for the round to commence
I
found a rare Doors album
It was made after Morrison died
It was called “Other Voices”
It looked cheesy and awful
Of
course I wanted to hear it
The
arrival of the judge snapped me back
As the order was read
I was almost dead last
So
much for being early
Just
before the first student started
A last minute type sauntered in
Slung
himself into a desk
Was told he was next
When
he got up the horror show began
He had picked my same poem
And he
was doing it better
I also
realized I had missed some lines
When I had typed it out
I had
it memorized with a whole stanza missing
All
I could think was that the story made more sense
It was exponentially better with those
lines
He totally brought the narrator to life
Engrossed in the masterful performance
Watching Sam
really come to life
I
was utterly impressed
Despite
my crushing disappointment
I wanted
to forfeit right there
Bury my head and rush out the door
But I
liked performing too much
A junky hooked on hearing my own voice
I
gave it my all
Then ran out the door with my head
buried
I
ended up feeling like that Doors album
Incomplete, unheard and ignored
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